“Son,” his grandmother said. That was her way. Regardless of the details of their relationship, all male descendants of hers were sons and all female were daughters. Assuming she deigned to notice them. Assuming they hadn't invoked <wrong verb> her ire and gained another name. She extended a graceful white hand. Her skin was paper-fragile, where once it had been tough and callused from work. She'd had 7 live-born sons and daughters and carried through with the demands of master through each pregnancy. They'd been passed off to wet nurses from their first scream, a tradition that Carlo's mother had continued. His wife, though, had loved nursing Noemi. Her smile had been beatific as she gazed at the tiny being, content to the point of sleep on her breast. He'd always remember his wife that way, not the wasted creature screaming in pain she'd been when she'd died.
His mind kept returning to the past. He had to focus on the present. That was the only way to succeed. He dropped into a bow and pressed a kiss to the thumb holding her hand, the proper greeting for the grand dame <?>. She pulled it back as soon as the formality was over.
His mother was in the room too, the firstborn child and rightful heir to the head of the guild council. A council he could never be on, although he sat in the meeting hall to record notes and smooth tempers. Some others were present, minor functionaries. He noted their presence. It was always valuable to know who grandmother allowed in her sight, but otherwise they were less memorable than the fly he swatted off the table.
“The preliminary tallies are final.” His mother was as precise in her speech as she was in her movements. “You are not ahead.”
Carlo slammed his hand into his open palm. Damnation. He'd been lobbying and caucusing for months. But with Noemi ill…
“I know you have been distracted with family concerns.”
Distracted. More like all-consumed.
“The council is disappointed. You had made a promising start and now we're preparing to lose our investment. Needless to say, you had guaranteed your bid.”
He had. He'd done the research. The once-a-decade contest for the guild president <not president, change. I know there's a better term> was at hand. <Describe the position>
He had thought he was an ideal candidate. He was affiliated with the most powerful guild, but not a guildman. He had deep pockets to draw from. All the large families knew him and made him a frequent guest at their gatherings. He knew he could charm the votes out of them. He'd been making a game effort of it, despite that upstart. Even the elation of his daughter's cure couldn't buoy his spirits. He'd disappointed his family.
“There's still time. There's still another week. I know that the <family A>s still have a fund in reserve that they may be willing to breach given enough incentive. <Name> of <Family B> swore he'd support me if I stand for him in their council.” He let his mouth run, itemizing every promise he'd received. It still wasn't enough. Damn it.
He hesitated before he continued. They knew it too. He averted his eyes. “There is one more option.” Taking their lack of dissent as assent, he continued. “My opponent is running a populist campaign. We have the florins, but they have the numbers. If I could siphon off some of their vote, that might be enough.”
“Appeal to the rabble?” His grandmother spoke again. Her lip was curled like she smelled something distasteful. “They don't even belong to a minor guild. They are hardly even people. No. I forbid it. Swarms of flies on two legs may be an annoyance, but a human can dispose of them.” To make her point, she crushed a fly that had been lazily floating on the sideboard next to her.
“You will take care of this matter, Carlo. I refuse to see my investment wasted. You will succeed and you will succeed in the proper manner. There is no other option.” Carlo's mother turned her back. The conversation was at an end. He had his orders. They had laid out so many florins on his endeavor, more than a year's profit, in order to gain control over citywide policy for the next decade. He knew his imagination wasn't exaggerating the consequences if he failed.
All trace of jubilation was gone. Carlo found the first secret place he knew of and slumped to the ground. Knees tucked into his chest, his brain churned and turned. How could he win this election? How could that nothing Isabella threaten him so much? Did she not know how things were?